


Attention

by RyMagnatar



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Quadrant Vacillation, Red and Black
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 17:23:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyMagnatar/pseuds/RyMagnatar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief showing of one of the ways that Eridan and Sollux oscillate from red to black in their romantic relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Attention

He lurks at the edge of your field of vision, twisting his rings- making them flash in  the light and continually grabbing your attention- and clearing his throat because he’s too damned full of himself to walk up and make a direct comment until he’s worked himself into this wound ball of emotions and comes striding over with his cape fluttering behind him like an idiot and his silver-slowly turning violet- eyes burning. 

The words he’ll say to you won’t hurt- they never really  _hurt_  per say- they just get under your skin, claw at your muscles and run prickles up and down your body. They latch on and suck your blood when you don’t pay attention, and the only way to get rid of them is to use your own as a torch and burn it away. 

(But you always miss one or two, like a bloodsucker that found its way into the hair on the back of your neck where you can’t see it, or on the folds at the side of your knee where you can’t really feel it until you’re sleeping and then it aches and  _aches_.)

He spits out his wobbly little words and you snap right back at him, taking everything in degrees, in steps. You make him work for it, work for your attention. Work for that first glance away from the screen. Work for that first word that isn’t “Go the fuck away” or an annoyed grunt. Work for you to leave the keyboard. Work for you to leave with him.

And when you’re away, you just make it worse. It’s the one thing he wants out of this whole relationship anyway, just to have someone look at him, pay attention to him like he’s  _worth_  something. He struggles against you for each glance, for each brush of skin on skin. He fights you to get that glancing bite-kiss that tears open his lips and spills his rich royal blood down his chin. He assaults you for each word, each touch, each moment until you win or he wins and the thought of your eyes on anyone or anything else is so far out of your head it’s probably in another universe.

Until all that exists is the way his mouth opens under yours or his body arches above yours. Until clothing is lost in the darkness and the world is filled with his warbling voice and your hushed panting. Until you taste blood and his breath and even the hard floor that you’re pressed into is a distant thought for the burning black hatred you feel for the asshole before you. 

It digs at you, the way he looks so smug afterwards- so  _satisfied_ \- like the limp in his step, the cut at his mouth, eve the tears down his back, over his hips, are something to be proud of. He preens over his wounds, takes his time fussing over them, so you’ve seen, so you’ve heard. You just roll your eyes. Like there is anything from this relationship that you even benefit from…

* * *

**He would probably actually try to kill you if you said a word about this.**

You don’t blame him. If you acted this way towards him, you would kill him if he said a word of it to anyone else. Being weak is awful. Being weak in front of someone else is terrifying.

But going to someone when you’re at your lowest point is the worst of all. 

He doesn’t do it often, and half the time you don’t even remember. Yet, every now and then, when everything is silent and cool- when everything seems like just another night of you curled up, half awake-half asleep, trying to rest without going completely under- he shows up.

You don’t even wake up completely, before he has stumbled into your room and over to you and your shitty pile. He hates it, always complains about it, except for these times.

He can’t say anything at first, and sometimes at all, he just climbs onto the pile and curls up as tightly as possible. All pointy joints and edges, he presses his body against your chest, with his head tucked under your chin. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t make any other sound than ragged breath and the occasional, “Jutht thith onthe.”

You’ll just wrap your arms around him, pull your cape around the both of you, and kiss him between his little horns. You rub your fingers at the back of his neck, if you are awake enough, or just curl around him. Maybe it’s nightmares that bring him to you, maybe it’s just fear, or maybe it’s the voices in his head that he once told you about. You don’t ask. He doesn’t tell.

Sliding back into half sleep, you smile. This is so red, so pitiful, so flushed it hurts when you wake up in the morning and he pulls away, almost ashamed.

One day you will tell him you’re okay with black and red, but for now you just sort of sleep and let him worry about it.

You were red  _and_  black, after all.


End file.
